


Life In Color

by zaynyboy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaynyboy/pseuds/zaynyboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You sense it in a matter of seconds, maybe less, you feel it in your bones and in your veins like a space calling that you want him deeply. You want to touch his keen jaw and hear his secrets, you want to trace every slit of his spine and paint sunsets across his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In Color

Inspired by [this](http://luximy.tumblr.com/post/76907094481/shoutout-to-sam-for-letting-me-paint-a-sunset-on) lovely picture.

~~~

You find him settled down in the corner of the Tea house, serene and blissful with tranquil lineament and playful curls tangled in between a green floral scarf. He has his eyes penetrating into the pages of a book that looks like an antique treasure captured in his big hands, fingers with a line of rings wrapped around it nicely. And then there’s his body – long and vigorous – with a torso that you can’t really see an ending to and legs knotted in between the pile of pillows. He’s laid down across the velvet carpet, but it’s an instant realization that he’s muscular and toned from his shoulders down to his toes and you want it all. Every cell of what’s under his skin, you want to press it, feel it under your fingertips.

You sense it in a matter of seconds, maybe less, you feel it in your bones and in your veins, like a space calling that you want him deeply. You want to touch his keen jaw and hear his secrets, you want to trace every slit of his spine and paint sunsets across his back. Maybe he is your muse, you think, because there has never been a bigger fervor inside of you to use your brushes and every delightful tone there is in your palette than it’s now, looking at him and the way his lashes crest slowly, eyebrows furrowing at something what he’s just read and can’t quite comprehend.

And then your eyes meet, he must’ve felt your stare or admiration maybe. He distracts himself from the pages and his sight finds you easily even though you’re across the room with a bunch of people in between you two. He looks at you and you feel warm shivers, thousands of ants running across your feet because his eyes light up right away like a match and then he smiles – airily and incredibly charming – two deep dimples appearing on each of his cheeks as if his look wasn’t compelling enough already. It feels like noticing a falling star, a lighthouse in the middle of a nightmare or the sweetest taste on the tip of your tongue, all at once.

He looks down back at his book but keeps the half smirk on, his eyes clearly not going line by line anymore and him being distracted by you locking his eyes on him for what it’s been minutes already. And you think that maybe,  _maybe_  he would let you to do it. To smell the skin of his neck and paint skies on his shoulders.

You feel weak in your knees, but above that, you’re indescribably curious of how does he smell like or is his voice more of a bass or a masculine tenor or how do those full, defined lips move when he talks. But most of all, you are curious of his mind, how does it work and if everything inside of him is as beautiful as it’s outside.

You walk across the room and he doesn’t pick up his eyes until you’re lingering there right next to his feet for five seconds already. Teaser, you assume. You shiver from the excitement and bashfulness ‘cause you have never been like this before, so brave and instant. The corners of his lips rise even higher before he picks up his eyelids and scans you slowly and entirely from your boots to the tip of your hair that’s stucked under the black beanie and you think, more likely assume once again: he’s a complete antithesis to you. Confident, maybe lining on the border of smug or maybe just cheeky in his manner, as a high school lockhart shining on his graduation speech.

You introduce yourself, running mad circles with excuses of why did you come over and hear your own voice distant, shaking even, from the fire that creeps upon your cheeks. ‘I’m Harry,’ he says and stretches his hand for a shake, then asks you to join him down in the pile of pillows.

You sit down in lotus, quickly catching a glimpse of his inked arm and pocket a smirk that pops up on your mouth, because they’re such a mess - human’s heart and a book and a graceful rose – that kind of a beautiful mess. He starts talking then, no bubbling or stressful nonsense that you would probably create for the first couple of minutes, just his low and sonorous voice, telling you something about his favorite cinnamon tea and how it lacks the bitterness so you always have to put two lemons in it. Or three, if you’ve had a rough day. 

And then more than anything, it just clicks, simply and fluently. Two dimples appearing more often than you thought you deserved so you start to open up as well. You talk about art and literature and you find it almost heavenly adorable that it’s clear that Harry knows nothing about half of the things you tell him yet he nods knowingly and bravely stands out with his subjective opinions. He laughs and the sound of it revives a desire inside of you to make him laugh as often as it is possible, any way really. Surprising him with your famous morning  _Nutella_  pancakes or feet tickling, whatever it would take, but you crave for it. For his happiness.

Harry talks way more than you do, but his confidence turns out to be more of a childish charm crossed with natural kindness and curiosity about anything and everything. He keeps peeking at your shoulder bag and the small corners of your drawings that have slipped out a little until you give up your own insecurity and let him to dive in between the several pages of your humble sketches. And nothing,  _nothing_  has ever felt more inspiring to you than the way his eyes ignite in praise and honest adoration, how he sweeps his fingertips over the outlines of your drawings and tilts his head in a deep interest of every angle he can. He says nothing though, nothing intelligible at least, until he gets to the last page of the album; one of your first ever drawings from this summer, the same place the two of you are sitting now, just an empty spot. The wide window and the colorful pillows with Greek ornaments, the slightly gaudy red carpet and the pinkish sunlit afternoon sky you caught while drawing it from across the room.

Harry looks at you and there isn’t any other word to describe it than that he  _reads_. He reads you like an opened book and it comes to him in a matter of seconds, the realization that you’ve been waiting. Waiting for a while, patient and desperate at times, but always truthful to yourself. He leans closer and leaves a warm and delicate kiss on your cheek, the smell of his coconut shower gel and watermelon bubble gum reaching your lungs and it happens then, really quick and instantaneous. You know that it’s true, you see it in that light green ring of his eyes that he’s pure and he’s authentic and that he’s beautiful. You could turn him inside out and he would still be as beautiful as he is with the dark brown loops of hair and inked swallows on his chest that peek out of his low cut shirt. 

He blatantly asks if you want to finish the sketch now, the same view just with him sticking a tongue at you from where the both of you have sat now. He winks lightly and that undeniable flirtatious excellence, warmness and general childish string he wears across his heart that still somehow manages to resemble of something wise and experienced, it really leaves you no other chance. You lean in and press your lips against his ear, exhaling a warm breath and feeling him swallowing hard under beneath it. It’s mad, but you could swear that you hear his heartbeats fastening right before you whisper it like an expensive secret, a confession maybe.

‘I want to paint things on your back. On your bare back, a sunset maybe. Would you let me to?’

He blinks leisurely as if considering it like a business offer and licks his lips. Licks them twice. Then slowly and attentively presses his warm cheek against your burning one so his puff mouth is touching your ear and whispers back a simple, but content ‘okay’. Like a quick breath.

You have never felt your pulse so hasty.  _Okay_.

~

The lock of your key turns and it isn’t even dusky outside before you both enter your apartment. The fumy air wraps around the both of you and you rush to open the bedroom window to let out the smell of cigarettes and invite the late summer evening’s coolness.

Harry fits, he fits in here like a garish puzzle peace between the bohemian aura, the scattered painting palettes and the simple mess you always love to keep around you. He walks around cautiously, makes the acquaintance with touches weather it’s the Eiffel tower magnet on your fridge or the window sills that you painted into a chess table only weeks after you moved in, he brushes an index over all of it. It’s almost like his curiosity couldn’t be fed unless his fingertips meets the object, but you let him to, let him to approach you through this and through anything he would want to, really.

You offer him a cup of tea, foolishly, after you’ve just drank three cups each already so he waives politely and asks if you maybe have something stronger. About a half an hour later, there are two glasses of vine on your bedroom cupboard, there is a yellow moonlight leaving shadows on your cream white sheets and there is Harry, even loader and even more beautiful.

He talks  _way_  more when he’s all boozy and under the breath of his own chuckle, can’t quite sit at one place. He’s also not much of a neat person, really, all limbs and legs for miles. So when he shuffles around the bedroom and trips over nothing twice, then another time, bumping his foot against the bedstead’s corner hard enough that there’s a small puddle pouring with blood where he’s standing, he admits it remorsefully, that it happens to him, happens quite often. And while he theatrically frowns in pain as you bandage the soar place, there is this small dark wish inside of you that the little bruise under his ankle would be deep enough to turn into a scar. So Harry had that something, something that wouldn’t let him to forget about you tomorrow or the day after or a decade from now.

And then it doesn’t take long from there. Harry doesn’t move anymore, you don’t let him to, really so the two of you settle down on the mattress smoothly, your knees barely brushing, but then there’s your hands as well. Harry’s fingers tracing the lines of your inked sleeve and you palming the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of those curly locks. It’s nothing, but then it could be everything as well.

So, if there was a choice, you would’ve chosen to spend the rest of the night in talks and timid touches full of embracement and graduating affection, because you crawl in any kind of a relationship development, but Harry jumps. He jumps from medium closeness to telling you about his parents’ divorce and he jumps and he runs and he doesn’t let you to feel less impressed by him or his audacity as the hours go by even a tiny bit. It makes you anxious, but then again so pleasantly excited, because you suddenly want to jump as well - over sky scraper rooftops or airplanes to the other side of the world - as long as it’s with Harry.

And you think, you hope with all your guts, maybe even pray like a sinner on a Sunday’s afternoon that you will get to keep him. All six foot something, your Tea house muse. Your pocketful of inspiration.

You watch him pulling off his shirt, the muscles of his back stretching and cramping back together like an elastic bands. You look at it, stare at it, every curve and every birthmark and you have never tried to learn something all by your heart as fast as you do now, because what if you don’t get to keep him. What if he’s a resident runner not only with his words and approaching tactics, what if he’s a runner for life, never the same bed for two nights and stuff? Or, what if he’s really a living, breathing muse? You don’t get to keep those forever, do you, no one deserves them forever. But for tonight he’s here, starfished across your mattress with hands fondling your sheets. You have him for tonight.  

You come back with your palette and two brushes and a glass of water and just as you put it all on the planks, your heart flips like a coin, because he seems to be fallen asleep, his chest weltering peacefully. Then the pile of brown curls shuffles and Harry throws his head backwards to frown at your fearful expression that vanishes right after.

You sit down on his thighs with the palette in your hand and it’s not only foolishly sentimental for you, it’s something you know that nothing and no one will ever be able to top for you, not even yourself. You remember one of your first ever camps, that kind of early teenage multi-tasking camps, during elementary school and how it was the art section you always got trapped into. Embarrassing, but pretty much fatally, how the rest of the boys yelled their throats out during football matches while you were hiding somewhere at the corner of the lake’s footbridge, trying to capture the beauty of waves splashing at the back of your younger sister’s sticker album.

But it’s not about that, you caught yourself up on that soon enough, that you don’t want to spend your time and give a single fuck about what anyone else thought about you, really. The thing it  _was_  about, was how you always thought that you can never do the look of the nature in justice. Water and its waves, they never seemed fluid or compelling enough or how the meadow of daisies didn’t look as delicious on your paper as it did in your grandma’s garden. And the night skies - sunsets and sunrises - they never came out as magical or ethereal; as much as you tried, it never reached the level of the realness you saw it behind your own eyes.

But then you have it tonight. Your wrists move almost automatically, pulling lines and leaving dots at the small of his back. You have him giggling to cramps from the ticklish sensation and you have him asking for neckline and cheekbone kisses, as an indemnity for him letting you to use his body as a painting base. Or maybe, he simply enjoyed your lips meeting his skin as much as you did.

And you look down at it,  _him_ , when it’s finished and you could swear to Picasso himself that this is the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever created. Exotic, but homelike at once, with orange lines and yellow spirals and pinkish dots all over. It’s the smell of paint and Harry’s skin mashed in one and it’s the lines of your brushes matching the curves of his scapulars. That’s the magic. That’s how you capture beauty.

And you don’t know if you’ll have him tomorrow morning or if he will try to wash your drawing away first thing as he wakes up. But you still spend half of the night fondling the flesh of his neck and the other dreaming about, what it seems like, a cosmic journey, with Harry sitting and sticking his tongue out at you from every second star in the sky. 


End file.
